Storms Over Africa (30 page)

Joseph shrugged and said nothing.

Penny, warned by the signs of her father's rising anger, still wanted the last word. ‘All I'm saying, Daddy, is that we had to change. Like it or not—'

‘I think we've exhausted that subject,' Greg cut in calmly. Having seen Penny and Richard argue before, he saw the opportunity to cut in as both of them were backing down. ‘What about Australia, Steve? You have Aborigines there, what about their history?'

‘Australia doesn't have such a colourful history.' She was very embarrassed by her first encounter with a heated clash between Penny and Richard and blamed herself for it. ‘What went on before Captain Cook isn't documented very well, nor taught in our schools. We're in danger of losing our past because, like Africa, the old history is related down from generation to generation by word of mouth. Whole languages have already disappeared. We've only just begun to realise the tragedy of our loss.'

‘The same thing has happened in Africa.' Greg was aware of her embarrassment and wanting, like her, to change the subject. ‘Only the most dramatic events, or the most pre-
dominant tribes, have endured.' He looked over at Joseph, ‘Wouldn't you agree?'

Joseph appeared unaffected by Richard's outburst. ‘One hears stories of other tribes. Because Shaka, and others like him, killed the men of tribes they conquered and took the women and children into their own tribes, a lot of their history has gone. There are even stories of white children being taken into his tribe and growing up as one of them.'

‘American Indians did the same thing.' Penny was attempting to control her temper.

‘I guess it's inevitable,' Steve was pleased everyone seemed back to normal. ‘Who knows, one of these days the entire world may be the same colour.'

No thanks.
Richard, Greg and Joseph had the same thought simultaneously.

‘What are we going after tomorrow?' David asked suddenly. He had remained impassively quiet during the entire discussion, even turning his head away to stare into the darkness.

‘I saw some buffalo tracks on the way here,' Richard said. ‘Quite a big herd by the looks. We might try our luck and get some extra meat into the camp.'

‘Count me out,' Penny shuddered. ‘I don't like hunting buffalo.'

‘They're okay if you stick to the rules,' David told her scornfully.

Steve looked at the three of them and
wondered how they could speak naturally, as though a violent clash of ideas had never taken place. Her family conducted disagreements in measured tones and with thoughtful statements. An outburst such as Penny's or Richard's would be considered extremely bad manners and would be immediately followed up with an apology, but Penny and Richard simply acted as though they had just been enjoying a normal conversation and David as if he had been listening to one.

‘I wonder if old Ironsides is still alive,' Greg mused, looking at Richard.

‘Doubt it. He was a monster. Someone would have shot him by now.'

‘Who was Ironsides and why would someone have shot him?' Steve asked.

‘Ironsides was the biggest, meanest buffalo imaginable, with a horn span that must have gone 140 centimetres. This was his territory and during the war we crossed paths with him.' Richard grinned at the memory.

‘We did a spot of training down here occasionally,' Greg added, glancing at Joseph to see if he would react to this reference to the war. Joseph Tshuma, his face unreadable in the firelight, simply looked back.

‘What the hell,' Greg thought, ‘the war is long over.' He went on, ‘but on this occasion we were down here to flush out some terrs . . .'

‘Terrs?' Steve was puzzled.

‘He means freedom fighters,' Joseph informed her. ‘Otherwise known as terrorists or terrs.'

‘Oh.' She didn't know what else to say.

‘This is not a story about the war, Steve,' Greg told her, ‘I just mentioned our reason for being here so you'd know.'

‘Sorry, Greg, I didn't mean to interrupt. The expression was new to me.' Again, she felt embarrassed. The animosity between Joseph Tshuma and Richard was not a palatable thing though she could understand most of the reasons for it. What she could not comprehend was how opposing sides like Greg, Joseph and Richard could casually refer back to a war which must have created tremendous resentment and hatred. She simply could not imagine her father, who had fought in Vietnam, sitting around a camp fire with some of his old enemies. Her father hated ‘the bloody Cong' as he called them, as much now as he must have hated them back in the '60s. She decided again that Rhodesians—or Zimbabweans—had to be unlike anyone else she had ever met.

‘There were eight of us down here,' Greg continued. ‘We'd been living rough for two weeks and we fancied some fresh meat. We'd seen a spoor of a large herd of buffalo and figured some juicy steaks would really go down well. Four of us went off, the last of the big
white hunters.' Greg laughed. ‘The only hunting any of us had ever done was with a bloody great .470 stuffed full of 500-grain solids. We couldn't risk using our guns this time, we were supposed to be under cover, we had to get our buff the hard way.'

Richard took up the story. ‘Buffalo are pretty scary at the best of times. He has virtually no weak points. He can spot a charging flea from a hundred paces, he can hear you thinking, he can smell the Indian Ocean from here and, when he charges, he's not giving you a demonstration, he means business. He might look like Daisy the Milker but if you get his attention and he's in the wrong frame of mind you'd better hope your insurance is up to date.'

‘So why did you want buffalo? Why not a buck of some kind?' David asked. He appeared to have put aside some of his churlishness in the special magic of the camp and the fire and the sense of adventure.

‘Because they taste bloody wonderful,' Greg answered him. ‘Because we hadn't eaten anything other than snake and birds for two weeks. We were desperate for some decent food. Besides,' he grinned, ‘we had, between us, enough experience of hunting buffalo to feel we stood an even chance of getting one.'

‘How did you plan to kill it?' David asked Greg, not Richard.

‘Spears,' Richard answered him anyway. ‘We'd made some spears and had practised throwing them and we figured we were pretty good.'

‘God! You must have been crazy,' Penny burst out.

Richard looked sheepish. ‘I'd like to tell you we planned to face a charging buffalo and kill him with honour but I can't. The idea was for us to find and climb four trees and wait for the buffalo to pass. One of us had to kill one, we couldn't all miss.'

Greg took over. ‘Facing a charging buffalo with several heavy guns trained on him is dangerous enough. The bloody animal keeps his head held up high until the last minute. The only way I know to stop a buffalo in his tracks is with a brain shot and he makes it pretty impossible unless you're good enough to put a bullet up his nose.'

‘How did you expect to kill it with spears if it's difficult enough with bullets?' Steve asked.

‘A spear in the breast, just above the front legs, would have dropped him. It wouldn't reach the heart and kill him immediately but he'd probably have died shortly thereafter,' Greg said.

‘We picked up the spoor easily enough,' Richard continued. ‘We found the buff settled down in some of the nastiest thicket I've ever seen. There must have been fifty of them in
there. We were in luck because, downwind of where they were, a path ran to their waterhole so we knew they'd come past us eventually. We found four good trees along the track and we climbed them. From our vantage points up the trees we had a great view down to where the buff were lying up. They didn't seem to be in a hurry to go anywhere so we settled down to wait for them.'

‘That was our mistake,' Greg carried on. ‘Perched up trees like monkeys is only good for one thing. Monkeys. We all stiffened up and got cramp. By the time the buff felt it was time for a drink, none of us had much power left in our throwing arms. They came out of the thicket, just ambling along, and in the front was a young bull. Tinker was in the first tree.' He was referring to a man who's last name was Bell. ‘He had an awkward throw because other branches got in the way. His spear went high and bounced off the buff's horn. That was when we met Ironsides.'

‘The herd were pretty confused by the spear,' Richard took up the story again. ‘They bellowed a bit and ran around a bit looking for something to attack, and the dust caused Tinker to have a sneezing fit. Old Ironsides looked up and saw him sitting in the fork of the tree, just out of reach, and he went mad. He charged that tree like it was a piece of grass. Tinker damn nearly fell out of it. Ironsides must have
head-butted the tree a dozen times and Tinker was whipping around like a cork in the surf. The rest of the herd had galloped off although they stayed close enough to watch the fun. Tinker was yelling for us to do something so I threw my spear since I was in the second tree. It was a good shot. The spear flew through the air and its point struck Ironsides and should have gone straight into him. Instead, it bounced off like it had hit a brick wall.'

‘That was another mistake,' Greg laughed. ‘The spear had nicked the buff and he got really mad. He was tossing his head around and pawing the ground and suddenly he saw there were four of us. He treated us to half an hour of the most awesome display of power I've ever seen. He shook the hell out of all of us. We threw the other two spears but they just bounced off like Richard's had done. He must have had a hide five centimetres thick.'

‘How did you get away?' David's surliness had gone. He had not heard this story before.

Richard answered. ‘I think that old buff must have brain-damaged himself on the trees. His head was bleeding and the boss on his horns was cracked and chipped. He was bawling and bellowing and thundering around like a maniac. He made one last mighty charge at Tinker's tree and fell over.'

‘Fell over! Why?' Steve asked. Her sympathies lay with the buffalo.

‘He'd knocked himself out.'

‘We didn't wait around to see how long it would last,' Greg added. ‘The rest of the herd had wandered away. They probably wondered what had gotten into Ironsides. We shinned down the trees and gapped it back to camp as fast as we could go. The stupid thing was, while we were away, the boys in camp had knocked over an impala. It had literally run into their Land Rover.'

‘So you got your meat after all,' Steve said.

Richard nodded. ‘It wasn't buffalo but it still tasted pretty good.' He leaned forward and poked at the fire with a stick. ‘That experience taught me a valuable thing about buffalo. If they decide they don't like you, they'll stop at nothing to get you.'

‘And that,' Penny said, ‘is why I won't be going with you tomorrow. I don't like them.'

‘Is hunting them always dangerous?' Steve asked.

‘Wounding them is dangerous,' Richard answered. ‘If you find one out in the open and hit him where it matters he'll roll over with his hooves in the air. But if you wound one and have to go after it, then it's dangerous.'

‘Do hunters always go after animals they've wounded?' She did not want to know about wounded animals. Her heart went out to them.

‘Yes,' Richard answered firmly. ‘They must. And it's not just to save the animal from suffering,
although that's part of it. A wounded animal, particularly a buffalo or any one of the big five, is a danger to others. And there's something else. Hunters, like any other sportsmen, like to play the game well. A good clean shot and a good clean kill to them is like a well-struck golf ball to a golfer.'

‘A golf ball doesn't die.' She spoke sharply, then relented a little. ‘I'm just not keen on seeing animals killed but I'm beginning to understand that it's not just the killing that attracts hunters. Conservation issues aside, I hate the idea of having the power of life or death over anything. I guess some of us can pull the trigger and some of us can't. You can talk about it till you're blue in the face, and I do understand what you're saying, I really do. If you don't mind, however, I'll take my shots with a camera.'

Richard was about to answer but Penny, who had only half listened, suddenly and irrelevantly broke in. ‘Look at David. He's an ardent conservationist but he loves hunting,' she turned to him. ‘Don't you, David?'

But this was too close to being friendly for David who shrugged and retreated into silence.

Richard frowned at both his children. Then he said to Steve, ‘Come with us tomorrow. Stay with the vehicle. You'll get some good sunrise shots. You don't have to watch us hunt.'

She shot him a look of gratitude. She knew he was disappointed.

Samson announced dinner was ready. He had prepared a camp stew with dumplings and they washed it down with a very good red wine. The earlier storytelling mood left them as they discussed the following day's hunting. Those going out the next morning had to be up at 4.30, so by 9.30 they had all retired.

In their tent, Penny commented to Joseph that she had been interested in his account of how the Matabele and Mashona came to settle in Zimbabwe. ‘You've never told me any of that.'

‘You never asked.' He was as surprised as she that he had opened up to the Australian woman as much as he had. Until now, Joseph believed he could never like a white person, but Steve was truly without prejudice and, more important, she did not bend over backwards to be nice either. He felt she was the first white person he had ever met who judged him for himself without being encumbered by racial considerations.

‘How about a little present?' Penny's coyness irritated him. She always asked for cocaine that way.

‘You don't need it,' he said. ‘It's got to last.'